"—and fuckingtragedytore through our lives like a hurricane." I grip the bottom of my seat. "But now that everyone's settling down, now that Pietro has Nora and Lorenzo has Sophia and we're all playing happy family again,nowyou remember I exist? Now you forget about secrets and remember I'm a bargaining chip?"
"Vittoria." Mamma's voice carries a warning.
"What secrets?"
The question hangs in the air. Mamma's dark eyes sharpen, decades of survival instinct focusing on me like a laser.
Merda.
My stomach drops. I said too much. Let emotion override the careful walls I've built around the truth about Papà.
"What secrets are you referring to,tesoro?" Mamma repeats, softer now. More dangerous. "Is there something I should know?"
I force my fingers to unclench from the chair. Breathe. Think.
"Every family has secrets, Mamma." I keep my voice level. Bored, even. The tone of someone stating obvious facts rather than deflecting from catastrophic truths. "Ours more than most. I'm not talking about anything specific. Just... the weight of it all. The things we don't discuss. The elephants in every room we enter."
Mamma studies me for a long moment. I hold her gaze, praying my face doesn't betray the lie.
"You're being dramatic," she finally says. "A trait you inherited from your father."
The irony almost makes me laugh again.
"Maybe I am." I shrug, letting the tension bleed from my shoulders. "It's been a long day. I'm tired. And I don't appreciate being ambushed at dinner about my marriage prospects like we're living in medieval Sicily."
"It's not medieval to want security for your daughter." Mamma rises from her chair with the grace of a queen. "It's practical. It's survival. And whether you like it or not, Vittoria, you are a Sartori. Your marriage will benefit this family."
"Or I could stay single and continue being useful with my actual skills. You know, the ones that keep our security systems running and our enemies out of our business?"
"You can do both." Pietro speaks for the first time since this conversation derailed. "No one's asking you to stop working."
I stare at him.
"How generous," I say. "I can keep my jobandspread my legs for whoever benefits the family most."
"Vittoria." Mamma's voice cracks like a whip.
"I'm tired." I push back from the table. My appetite died somewhere betweenspinsterandpractical. "It's been a long day, and I have work in the morning."
"We're not finished discussing?—"
"Yes, Mamma. We are." I meet her eyes. "At least for tonight."
"We'll talk tomorrow. When you've rested." Aria Sartori says.
When you've calmed down, she means.When you're more agreeable.
"Sure." I don't bother hiding my skepticism. "Tomorrow."
I kiss her cheek because I'm not a complete savage, and because despite everything, I love her. She smells like Chanel No. 5 and the jasmine that grows wild around her villa in Sicily. For a moment, I'm seven years old again, crawling into her lap after a nightmare.
Then I remember she's trying to sell me to the highest bidder, and the nostalgia evaporates.
"Goodnight, everyone."
I don't wait for responses.
Dmitri
